The Piano Player's Son

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  'Of course. He kept writing, asking when I was coming back. He missed little Grace as well. She'd only been a baby when we left.' Eva stood up and started rinsing the coffee cups at the sink.

  Isabel stared at her back. You're telling me that? she wanted to shout. She'd cried herself to sleep every night when her mamma and little sister disappeared. Grandma had got fed up with her: 'It's no good fretting, child,' she'd shouted. 'You'd better think of them as dead.'

  Eva dried the cups. She seemed to take forever to twist the tea cloth inside each one. 'Henry came to fetch me in the end. I talked to my sisters and they persuaded me to come back.'

  'And then you had George.' Isabel was sure her mother must be able to hear her heart thumping. This was getting closer to the secret she'd blurted out.

  'Yes. My little Giorgio.'

  'When? How soon after you got back?'

  'Questions, Isabel, so many questions! You know I'm no good with dates. Your father saw to everything like that.' She threw the teacloth onto the draining board.

  'Mum.' Isabel kept her eyes fixed on the jug of milk in the middle of the table. It was black with a gold line running round the lip. 'What you told me that morning… you know… after Dad died.'

  'What was that?' Eva was smiling to herself as if she'd retreated into her memories again.

  'You know… you said about George and Dad.'

  Eva turned away. 'I was upset. I probably said a lot of things.'

  'Is it true or not?' Isabel wasn't going to let her off the hook so easily this time.

  At first she just stood there gazing out of the window. But finally she nodded; a small, almost imperceptible movement.

  Isabel stared hard at the milk jug. The gold line seemed to waver. 'Does George know?'

  'No.'

  'Does anyone know?'

  'Leave it, Isabel. Forget I ever told you.'

  'Did Dad know the truth?'

  'Of course he knew. We told each other everything.'

  'So, if it wasn't Dad, who was George's father?'

  Eva swung round from the window. 'Your father made me promise never to tell anyone.'

  'Why?' Isabel asked. 'Surely George had a right to know.'

  Eva shrugged. 'Leave it alone, Isabel. Do as your father wanted.'

  Isabel stopped off at the supermarket on her way home. When she got to the flat, a light was shining from under the kitchen door, but Rose had said she would be late back. The kitchen was so small most of the room was obscured by the door until you were inside. Isabel was prattling brightly about not expecting to see Rose for hours, when she stopped. It wasn't Rose sitting at the table. It was Brian.

  'What are you doing here?'

  'I came to see Rose. She rang me.' He stood up and teased the plastic carrier from her fingers. It seemed such an intimate gesture. She turned away and started unpacking the shopping.

  'I thought Rose was going out tonight.' Isabel couldn't bear to be wrong-footed by him. She was the one who was supposed to know what Rose was doing. A tin of baked beans slipped from her grasp and banged on to the worktop.

  'She has,' he said. 'She left about an hour ago. I said I'd wait for you.'

  Isabel could feel him standing behind her but she was determined not to turn round. The shopping bag was empty, and she was hemmed in between Brian and the worktop.

  'I don't want you in my house when I'm not here.'

  'Bel.' He put his hands on her shoulders. They felt warm and heavy and she clenched her teeth. Heat spread across her belly and down into her thighs. 'Rose said it would be all right.' His voice was barely a whisper. Isabel felt his breath on the back of her neck, and his lips fluttered over her skin.

  At last she found the strength to swing round. 'I'd like you to go.'

  His face was close. His cheeks were rough and reddened as if he had been out in a harsh wind. Lines of blood scarred the whites of his eyes. He pushed himself against her. Perspiration sprouted on his top lip. She felt his hardness.

  'You know you want it as much as I do, Bel.' He slurred the words and she realised he'd been drinking. 'Let's go to bed.' This time he seemed to fall against her.

  'I've told you.' Isabel raised her hands against his chest. 'Go home.'

  'You don't mean that.'

  'What about Anita? She'll be waiting for you.'

  'I'll make it good for you. Who'll be any the wiser?' He cupped her breasts in his hands. 'You've got lovely tits. Did I ever tell you that?' He leered into her face, his breath foul-smelling.

  'You're too late, Brian.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I've met someone else.'

  Ten

  When Grace woke, the shutters were ajar and a sliver of light slanted across the room. She stretched, easing her limbs into the cool reaches of the bed. There was no sign of Franco.

  She turned on her back and listened. The ristorante was gearing up for another day. The familiar sounds calmed her, like waves breaking on shingle. It was the end of the season and a lot of the hotels were closed, but the ristorante had a regular clientele, especially at weekends when Neapolitans arrived on their fast boats. Franco's parents' pizzeria in Naples was famous, and people came to see what il figlio was up to.

  From outside came a harsh grating noise as the door of a van slid back. A man's voice called 'Giorno! Giorno! Permesso! Permesso!' and Grace recognised Giuseppe, who delivered the fish Franco selected from the morning's catch. The bedroom was above the kitchen and she heard the clatter of pans, the sound of Maria's high-pitched singing.

  Grace would usually be busy preparing the restaurant at this hour. She liked the feel of the crisp white tablecloths and the scent of the nosegays adorning each table. In winter the glass doors were shut against the winds that blew off the sea, but for much of the year, they were folded back and tables were set out on the terrace which overhung the Bay of Cartaromana. She'd persuaded Franco to redecorate in pale cream with dark green floor tiles. A richly quilted canopy in a darker shade of cream hung across the ceiling. The wood-burning stove was a new addition for cool evenings.

  She slipped from the bed and crossed to the window. She pulled back one of the shutters. The sun was shining and the light glinting off the sea was sharp and clear. It was a shock after the leaden skies of England. She drew a cardigan over her flimsy nightdress and stepped out onto the balcony.

  Her eyes sought Sant'Anna's rocks, sturdy tuffs rising steeply out of the sea. On summer mornings, while it was still quiet, she liked to scramble down the steep path to the beach and swim across to the rocks. Franco had attached a rope to one of them so that she could haul herself up. She'd found a spot, where the sea had washed the rock smooth. She could sit in it, almost like an armchair.

  She lifted her gaze from the rocks to the castello, her favourite place on the whole island. Like something from a fairytale, it stood on its cone of volcanic lava, mysterious and compelling. Grace had lost count of the number of times she had crossed the bridge and climbed up to the remains of the castle cathedral, where in the sixteenth century the poet Vittoria Colonna's wedding was celebrated. She always took her copy of Vittoria's poetry with her and read in the shadows of the high vaulted arches. To her it was the most romantic place in the world, but Franco scoffed at her obsession with that old ruin.

  It was chilly standing out on the balcony in her nightclothes. She stepped inside and drew back the sliding door which hid their kitchen. She boiled water for coffee. In the summer she was so busy, she scarcely noticed their cramped living conditions, but as the winter drew on, she resented being cooped up in one room. They usually ate downstairs in the restaurant, either in the late afternoon, or when they'd finished serving at midnight, but this was always a public occasion shared with Vincenzo and Alfonso who waited at table, and any of the locals who were there that evening. It seemed a long time since Grace had made supper for the two of them, as she used to before they married.

  She got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. 'Buongiorno,
Maria!'

  Maria was at the sink washing vegetables. She turned at Grace's voice. 'Signora! Bella! Bella!' A string of impenetrable Italian followed. Maria's Sicilian dialect was sometimes too much for Grace. Maria flung her arms around Grace, squashing her against her breasts.

  Grace went into the restaurant. A young girl she hadn't seen before was spreading cloths on the tables. She smiled shyly. 'Buongiorno, Signora.'

  Franco emerged from the reception area. He looked bright and energetic, his eyes shining and his black hair combed back from his forehead. 'Carissima, you're up.' He was dressed in black trousers and a white linen shirt worn loose. 'I left you to sleep.' He put his finger under her chin and scrutinised her face. 'You look tired.'

  'I am. I'll be better now I'm back.' She saw the question in his eyes and felt her face flush. She leant forward and touched his lips with hers. Without warning he slipped his tongue into her mouth. She tasted the bitterness of his cigars and steeled herself not to pull away.

  They had made love yesterday after they got back from the airport. He had been gentle and tender. When they first met, she'd teased him, wondering how a good Catholic boy had become such an expert lover. But last night his kisses didn't send her heartbeat racing. As his tongue caressed her body with tiny darting movements, she'd felt wooden.

  She scanned his face now, but it was impossible to detect if he suspected.

  'Shall we have lunch together?' he asked. 'There aren't many bookings.'

  They sat at Grace's favourite table next to the window. Only four of the other tables were occupied.

  Alfonso came to serve them.

  'I'll have the pollo,' Grace said.

  'The squid, he is good today.'

  'Chicken is fine, thank you.'

  'It's good to have you back, Signora.' Alfonso poured prosecco into her glass. The sparkling wine had been her favourite drink since her first visit to Venice when she was seventeen. She smiled up at Alfonso's eager face. 'It's nice to be back.'

  Franco took her hand across the table. 'You look so sad,' he said, dropping little kisses into her palm. 'Do you miss your papa very much?'

  'It's hard,' she said. 'I'm not sure how I feel at the moment.'

  'Grace…'

  She looked across at him expectantly, but he was taking a gulp of wine, his head thrown back as he drained the glass. She was surprised. He didn't usually drink at lunchtime. He put the glass down and wiped his mouth on the white napkin.

  'What is it?'

  'That night… when you heard about your papa—'

  'Don't,' Grace said. 'I don't want to think about it.'

  'I wanted to say… I'm sorry.' He managed to meet her eyes at last. 'Sorry I wasn't with you when you got the news.'

  When Franco had stormed off that afternoon, Grace had expected him to be back in a couple of hours. There was dinner to deal with, for a start. But he didn't return. Grace and Maria did the cooking between them, and Vincenzo and Alfonso waited at the tables. Grace caught them all looking at her inquisitively, but none of them said a word. All through the long evening, her mind wandered to hospital wards, doctors, her father in bed, striped pyjamas too small for his long arms. When Isabel phoned again to say he seemed worse, she swayed as she clutched the receiver to her ear. She had to see him again. She had to feel his smile on her one last time. Then she'd know.

  Her mobile rang in the early hours with the news her father had died. She turned to Franco for comfort, but his side of the bed was still empty. He hadn't returned in the morning when she left to catch the ferry to Naples.

  'Where did you go?' she asked now.

  'Napoli.'

  'Naples? You mean you went to your parents?'

  He looked embarrassed. 'I know what you think. But Mamma…'

  'You went running to her because we'd had a row?'

  He nodded. 'I wanted to explain why you aren't pregnant yet. I couldn't bear them to keep asking.'

  'Oh great! Now they'll have me marked as that barren English girl.' Grace heard her voice getting louder. A man at one of the other tables was staring over at them. She looked back at Franco.

  'Barren?' Franco shrugged. 'I don't know this word.'

  'It doesn't matter. When did you get home?'

  'I caught the first ferry over in the morning,' he said. 'But you'd already gone.'

  'I probably passed you—' she wondered if he could hear her bitterness '—going the other way.'

  For the next few days Grace and Franco skirted around each other. There was a late season surge in visitors so they were busy, which helped. Or Franco was. Grace couldn't shake off the lethargy, and now she was back in Italy she fretted about her family. She caught the bus into Ischia Porto and wandered down to the harbour.

  She stopped for a slice of pizza at one of the taverns on the rive droite. From there, she admired a yacht, anchored a few feet away. It towered above her, two decks high. Its sleek blue paint gleamed where two uniformed sailors were washing its hull down with long-handled brushes. Its name was picked out in white copperplate script—Miss Mulberry, LONDON.

  Her friend Lilian phoned and invited her to lunch at their favourite restaurant in Piazza Dante. Grace had met Lilian in a bookshop when she first began teaching in Naples. Lilian was Scottish, but had come to Italy with her husband, Nathan James, a diplomat at the British Embassy in Rome. When he died scarcely eight months into the posting, Lilian couldn't face the thought of life back home without him and settled in Naples. She was sixty, a tiny woman, barely five feet, with a shock of white frizzy hair. Theirs was an unlikely friendship, but when Lilian phoned, Grace realised that lunch in Naples was the tonic she needed.

  The restaurant was a warren of rooms, each one opening off the other. Grace passed through them searching for Lilian. She found her near the back, engrossed in a book, a cup of rich dark coffee, one of her favourite cheroots nestling in the saucer, beside her.

  She looked up as Grace arrived at her table, her face breaking into a wide smile. She snapped the book shut and stood up to embrace her. She barely reached Grace's shoulder and Grace always felt like a giant beside her. 'Let's order straight away. I'm famished. And you look as if you could do with a good square meal.' She pushed a menu towards Grace. 'I'm having pizza margherita. You can't get better than perfection.'

  Grace scanned the menu. 'The same for me,' she told the waiter.

  'I've ordered a litre of the house red.' Lilian gestured at the departing waiter. 'You should have seen his face. He made sure I had a bottle of water as well.' Lilian drank copious amounts, but remained stick-thin and sober. 'I could give up smoking and drinking and live till I'm ninety,' she liked to say, 'but I'd rather enjoy myself.'

  'So, how are you dear child? I'm so sorry about your daddy.' Lilian fingered the cheroot longingly—she'd never got used to the smoking ban.

  Grace had decided on the ferry coming over that she was going to confide in Lilian. Lilian had lived a bit and would probably have some advice. 'I feel so mixed up.'

  The waiter arrived with a carafe of wine. Lilian poured them both a glass. 'Would it help to talk?' She waved at her ears which were permanently bright pink. 'These flappy old things do have some uses.'

  Grace sipped her wine and felt its warmth tingle in her throat. 'It's complicated.'

  Lilian narrowed her eyes as if against smoke drifting up from her cheroot. 'I don't have to be anywhere.'

  'I wasn't there when he died.'

  'I guess that makes it harder to believe.'

  'Sort of. But I always thought one day I'd get a chance… a chance to ask him if he loved me.'

  'Loved you? Daddies and their little girls. There's something special there, isn't there?'

  Grace hesitated, while the waiter put their plates on the table. 'Bene grazie.' She took a mouthful of pizza. 'Mm. Lovely.'

  'Carry on.' Lilian tore off a chunk of pizza with her fingers.

  'When I was a baby…' Grace rested her elbows on the table '… Mum came back to Italy b
ecause her mother was ill. She left my dad and my brother and sister in England and took me with her.'

  'Difficult for everyone.'

  'The thing is my nonna died, but Mum didn't go home. I only knew our life in Italy. I was four when we got back. I can still remember how much I hated it. I didn't know any English. Rick and Isabel were big and scary. And every time my dad picked me up, I screamed.'

  Lilian took a mouthful of wine. 'Surely he understood. You were a frightened little girl.'

  'Not long after, my mother had another baby, George. And suddenly he was all that mattered.' Grace felt Lilian touch her arm. She stared at the brown splodges on the back of Lilian's hand. 'I can't remember Dad ever reading me a story, or playing with me, or even sitting on his lap.'

  'You poor, wee thing.'

  'That's why it was so awful not to get there in time. Now I'll never know.'

  'I'm sure your daddy did love you, but it must have been hard for him as well. This little mite, spouting Italian, screaming blue murder every time he went near her.'

  Grace couldn't help laughing. 'I suppose so, but I wish it had felt like it.'

  'Things aren't always as they seem.'

  'And I feel extra bad because I was horrible to my sister the whole time I was in England. I was… sort of jealous… of her closeness to Dad.'

  'I've known people behave in all sorts of peculiar ways after a death.'

  'But I usually get on so well with Isabel. She looked after me when I was little—when Mum and I first went back. I used to get in bed with her at night when I was scared… and she taught me English.'

  'She'll forgive you.'

  'But now she's left to deal with my mother, who is not the easiest of people. And Rick and George do nothing but argue.'

  'Brothers, eh?'

  'They've both decided they want Dad's piano. There was a terrible row.'

  'Who did your daddy leave it to? I presume there's a will.'

  'Apparently everything goes to Mum. And she wants to keep it.'